"Well, you've escaped death so often by the skin of your teeth, I think you're pretty safe from everything but old age." Presently James turned to his uncle. "I say, this is rotten oil. I wish we could get some fresh." "I was just thinking that." "Well, you're a pal of the cook. Go and ask her for some, there's a good chap." "She'll do anything for me," said Major Forsyth, with a self-satisfied smile. It was his opinion that no woman, countess or scullery-maid, could resist his fascinations; and taking the cup, he trotted off. James immediately went to the cupboard and took out a cartridge. He slipped it in, rested the butt on the ground, pointed the barrel to his heart, and--fired! EPILOGUE A letter from Mrs. Clibborn to General Sir Charles Clow, K.C.B., 8 Gladhorn Terrace, Bath: "DEAR CHARLES,--I am so glad to hear you are settled in your new house in Bath, and it is _most_ kind to ask us down. I am devoted to Bath; one meets such _nice_ people there, and all one's friends whom one knew centuries ago. It is such a comfort to see how fearfully old they're looking! I don't know whether we can manage to accept your kind invitation, but I must say I should be glad of a change after the truly _awful_ things that have happened here. I have been dreadfully upset all the winter, and have had several touches of rheumatism, which is a thing I never suffered from before. "I wrote and told you of the sudden and _mysterious_ death of poor James Parsons, a fortnight before he was going to marry my dear Mary. He shot himself accidentally while cleaning a gun--that is to say, every one _thinks_ it was an accident. But I am certain it was nothing of the kind. Ever since the dreadful thing happened--six months ago--it has been on my conscience, and I assure you that the whole time I have not slept a wink. My sufferings have been _horrible_! You will be surprised at the change in me; I am beginning to look like an _old_ woman. I tell you this in strict confidence. _I believe he committed suicide._ He confessed that he loved me, Charles. Of course, I told him I was old enough to be his mother; but love is blind. When I think of the tragic end of poor Algy Turner, who poisoned himself in India for my sake, I don't know how I shall ever forgive myself. I never gave James the least encouragement, and when he said that he loved me, I was so taken aback that I _nearly fainted_. I am convinced that he shot himself rather than marry a woman he did not love, and what is more, _my_ daughter. You can imagine my feelings! I have taken care not to breathe a word of this to Reginald, whose gout is making him more irritable every day, or to anyone else. So no one suspects the truth.